


Aegis

by IshkabibbleScribble



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Bromance, Comfort/Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 09:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3442868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IshkabibbleScribble/pseuds/IshkabibbleScribble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a particularly exhausting case, two facts come to light: John does indeed have limits, Sherlock does indeed have a heart, and the mixture of the two places the boys from Baker Street in uncharted territory. No slash, but heavy bromance!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Aegis
> 
> Rating: T
> 
> Original Pub Date: March 8th, 2013
> 
> Spoilers: Series 1 of Sherlock
> 
> Setting: A few weeks before the events of A Scandal in Belgravia
> 
> Disclaimers: This is purely to express my enjoyment of the show and the brilliant writing, characterization, and acting we've come to adore. ACD, Moffat and Gatiss own everything except the idea for this fic. 
> 
> AN:: I know, the hurt/comfort angle has been done. Many times. (So many delicious times). I hope you enjoy my take on it!

It is only when he turned around to remark that John's keen eyesight first put him on the trail of their killer that Sherlock realized the good doctor was not trailing along behind him, looking put-out and shouldering his jacket in grumpy jerks. He pulled up short just in front of the door to their flat, stilled, and listened for his blogger. The flighty nerves that characterized their night of pursuit return to the detective instantly. He can just barely hear low, shaky breaths over the obnoxious whine of the traffic outside. Brow furrowed now in something approaching concern, Sherlock took the steps back down two at a time, craning his neck around the bend in the stairs until John's knobby green jumper came into view.

He released an irritated huff in confirmation, the dratted knot in his stomach smoothing and disappearing. He and Mycroft could agree on one thing, it seemed; emotions were hardly the boon John claimed them to be. They clouded his judgement and eroded his mental armor. Useless. A liability. His unease, however, didn't dissipate as he approached John, noting his hunched posture on their stoop, head resting against the wrought-iron railing even though it's 2 degrees centigrade outside and dropping. And _of course_ John forgot his coat at the restaurant earlier that night, before bedlam had descended.

Lestrade had told him to watch John tonight, but surely it was just a precaution...The DI was forever harping on Sherlock to be careful not to run the doctor off "by sheer force of his personality."

"John?" He asked impatiently, dropping to a crouch behind his friend.

No response.

Sherlock glanced skyward. It was faintly drizzling now, the cold northerly predicted earlier that week now sweeping through Baker Street in fitful gusts. He watched the wind tear at John's hair and clothes, eliciting nothing but silence. John's chest heaved, each exhalation on the edge of becoming a sob. His hands covered his face, knuckles raw from his fall onto the asphalt.

A choleric comment was on his lips before images of their evening suddenly filled Sherlock's head: tearing down alleys and dashing haphazardly from footpath to crosswalk, through carparks, avoiding people and motorists alike as they chased down Edmund Bontrager, a kleptomaniac serial killer who had butchered ten people in as many days before John had spotted him, quite by happenstance, outside their favorite curry takeaway. Lestrade's admonishment echoed annoyingly in his head as he replayed the scenario. John had been at the front of the pack chasing Bontrager, running full-tilt with all the patience and endurance of a man accustomed to a long chase. He stepped into the next cross-street, so focused on their quarry that he barely registered the oncoming taxi. He managed to spin out of the way, but the taxi clipped him as it sped past, horn blaring, throwing John against the kerb. Before Sherlock could react, John had rocketed to his feet and continued the pursuit, seemingly uninjured.

He was clearly feeling the aftereffects of the near-miss, but it shouldn't provoke such an...emotional response. John was often affected by their more grisly cases, especially when they involved children. Nothing about the spate of murders was extraordinary, though. The deaths were rather dull and uniform in their execution-Sherlock had been much, much more intrigued by their executioner. And John _had_ been curiously reticent after Bontrager was apprehended. Instead of correcting Sherlock's broken social etiquette as Lestrade debriefed the pair, the ex-soldier stared fixedly at the ground, only looking up to dismiss the medics with a weary, yet kind, smile.

Sherlock frowned and reached a hand out, placing it gingerly on John's left shoulder, mindful that it was his bad one. He snatched his hand back as John bit back a strangled moan in the same instant, a shudder coursing through his frame.

"Ah, John," he remarked aloud, staring at the pattern of blood that had seeped onto his hand in the same pattern as John's jumper. He now noticed the ragged, stained hole in the fabric. Real worry clenched his stomach. All the evening's inconsistencies swirled together in a vivid tableau of John's wrongness, and Sherlock berated himself silently. Why did it take John's blood on his palm to shift his perspective? It was unforgivable. Inexcusable. After Moriarty's snide repartee, Sherlock had realized he'd developed a blind spot where the good doctor was concerned, and it was disconcerting how wide that blind spot ran.

He rested his hand on John's forearm, pressing gently to get the other man's attention. "Why didn't you say anything to the medics?" Sherlock asked, genuinely puzzled.

John had his pride, but it was often trumped by his common sense. The way he managed to bribe poetry from the dull trappings of life was what had initially piqued Sherlock's interest during that first meeting in the morgue. John kept him more honest (or guilty?) than he liked, but it was small pittance for so solid a sounding board.

"Didn't occur to me," came the clipped reply from behind the chapped hands.

"But you're bleeding. And your jumper is ruined."

"Well fancy that."

_Sarcasm._ Sherlock tried a different tack. "How serious?"

"No A&E," John warned, and Sherlock was relieved to hear a tinge of frustration in his friend's voice. His blogger wasn't entirely out of character. Sherlock arched an eyebrow in reply as he contemplated his next step, sensing that perhaps the strident approach would not be helpful.

"I know you're doing that eyebrow thing," John added sullenly, still turned away from the detective. "I just wanted to go home. Have a cuppa after this fucking awful night."

"The kettle's still cold," Sherlock said sardonically, stretching to his feet and proffering a hand.

John turned glassy eyes up to his friend, his expression clearly conveying that he didn't much share or trust Sherlock's optimism, but he grasped the offered hand all the same. Sherlock hoisted him up, steadying him absently as he catalogued the doctor's symptoms.

_Tachycardia. Perspiration. Slight mydriasis. Detachment._

Sherlock pressed two fingers to John's neck, which was far too cold, only to have his hand batted away with an irritated grunt.

" 'M alive, alright? Bugger off."

"Acute stress response or Post-Traumatic?" Sherlock asked.

"It's bloody well not shock," John snarled.

_Agitation. Possible flashbacks._

Despite the gravity of John's possible injuries, his curiosity stirred at the abnormal behavior. Ignoring medical evidence was modus operandi for him, but John...

"I apologize, John, that was insensitive," Sherlock murmured.

John snorted, but the tense set of his shoulders did not ease. "You never apologize without a motive. So if you're trying to sound sincere, you may need to work on your tone," he drawled, turning about on the spot and taking a step over the threshold. Despite John's hostility, Sherlock didn't miss the way that he listed backwards slightly, seeking the stability of Sherlock's hand on his elbow-another sign that his blogger was not as he should be. John ascended the first staircase doggedly. He caught the toe of his shoe on the landing and stumbled forward with a surprised grunt, dragging Sherlock forward. He jerked John back by the shoulder in an attempt to steady them both. The older man cried out and slumped against the bannister.

Sherlock swore vehemently as he gathered the stout man into his arms, maneuvering the lolling head against his shoulder as best he could before hauling him the rest of the way up the stairs. Better to get John to the couch before he came about; the manner in which he stammered and blustered whenever he and Sherlock were in "unusual" physical proximity would do nothing for his condition. He elbowed the light switch on in the hallway as he passed it, since his arms were full of John, and settled the doctor as gently as he could on the couch.

Sherlock immediately made good on his promise and put the kettle on, then busied himself with finding two mugs. He resorted to washing the ones from the night before when he realized that every other cup and bowl of their mismatched dinnerware was occupied with one of his experiments. Understanding now, faintly, why the constant disarray in the kitchen bent John out of sorts, he plunked the freshly washed mugs onto the countertop with a huff, and went about filling the little diffuser balls with some of the loose leaf Earl Grey they had picked up at the Cambridge market last week. The kettle only trilled for a second before Sherlock slid it off the burner and filled the mugs.

He watched the tea steep for several seconds before getting down on his knees by the fridge and gently tugging the loose baseboard until it came away in his hand. Several pill bottles crowded the small recess, in varying states of empty. He scanned the tiny print before selecting what he wanted, twisting the cap off and dumping half a tablet into his palm. He replaced the baseboard carefully, and went back to the tea. He waffled for a moment about the drug's efficacy if not taken whole, then dropped the half tab into one mug followed by three spoonfuls of sugar, and stirred quickly. After the tablet had dissolved, he tossed the spoon in the sink and went back out to the living room, tarrying at the light switch near John's chair, before deciding against it. John would doubtless want to regain consciousness without a flood of light in his eyes.

Placing their mugs carefully on the coffee table, Sherlock cleared the haphazard pile of files, notes, and autopsy photos off the desk and dragged the desk lamp to the edge and clicked it on, angling the weak beam onto John's unmoving form. Sherlock frowned as he took a sip of tea, mentally cataloguing what items he needed to retrieve from John's kit under the bed. It was a bit worrisome that John hadn't come 'round yet-a testament to his diminished state if anything, because he normally regained consciousness (violently) within a few minutes. Sherlock strode upstairs and gathered the medical locker, noting the absence of dust, and stopped into the washroom for a flannel before making his way back to his blogger.

Just in time, it seemed, for John had roused and was lurching his way into a sitting position. Wide, darting eyes. A quick lick of the lips. Possibly in the grip of a flashback.

"John, you've been unconscious. You are now in our flat at Baker Street," Sherlock began, edging towards the sofa. "Do you remember what happened tonight?"

The doctor cuffed at his nose with the sleeve of his jumper as he took stock of their darkened living room. His eyes settled on the Stradivarius leaning against Sherlock's armchair, his mouth working soundlessly. He planted both hands on the cushions and attempted to stand.

"No," Sherlock said quietly, dropping the kit at the foot of the sofa and blocking John's attempt to stand.

"Right, sorry. God, it hurts," John said, apparently now back in the present. He lowered himself clumsily back to the cushions, a tight grimace stretching his laugh lines into sharp angles. He shifted several times, attempting to rest his weight in a way that didn't aggravate his injuries. He settled into his previous position, most of his weight on the right hip as he twisted forward to take the pressure off his shoulder. His tan skin was ashen, even in the yellow glow of the lamp, and his tawny eyes were dull and drawn.

"That doesn't look comfortable," Sherlock commented from across the room, having decided that it was safe to leave his friend's side so he could fetch John's medical briefcase from under the pile of bills next to the Doctor's tattered excuse for an armchair.

"It's fine."

Sherlock shot his friend a glance. "You're twisted up like a fortune cookie."

"Ha. Ha," John ground out.

"Drink your tea." Sherlock directed.

"Not interested."

"Now who's being intractable?"

"Throwing my words at me won't work, Sherlock. And besides," John cast him an under-eyed glare, "I've earned a moment or two of recalcitrant behavior, dealing with you."

Sherlock threw a hand across his forehead and frowned dramatically. "Oh, John, you wound me."

John rolled his eyes, but his heart wasn't in it. Sherlock picked his way across the littered floor, all of his considerable energy focused on the doctor, now that he was properly conscious. The faint wrinkles around his eyes were more pronounced, and even the scowl John produced when he realized what Sherlock was doing was half-hearted at best. Time enough for banter later, once he had the man sorted. He firmly pressed the cooling mug of tea into John's tremulous hands, and began laying out the various equipment he would need.

"What should I do first?"

John nearly slopped tea onto himself, startled by the sudden question. He took another sip and handed the mug off with a sour expression, resigned to enduring Sherlock's ministrations, but clearly unhappy.

"What is this attitude?" Sherlock demanded, suddenly piqued and gesturing at _all_ of John with the flannel.

"I'm just not up for it, alright?"

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Not up for what? Another physician's opinion? Shall I call a cab to cart you off to A&E? Best hope you don't pass out en route."

"I don't need one goddamn thing," came the stubborn reply.

The appearance of John's least used curse was the cherry on top of the dysfunctional sundae. Rather than switch up his approach, or give John's aggression time to wane--both of them clearly sensible, and thus, not attractive to Sherlock--he opted to snarl at his friend in kind.  
"Forgive me, John, if I find your _inability_ to lie triflesome. You are clearly wounded. And I _did_ just carry you up a flight of stairs, so an ounce of consideration wouldn't go amiss."

"Well _thank you_ for not leaving me down on the landing," John bellowed, shattering the tension in the flat. "Though I suppose it would have been more useful if you had just left me there in a heap. Or are you planning on studying the 'psychological trauma' of nearly being squashed by a taxi? Wouldn't be the first time you've used my misfortune to fuel whatever hairbrained experiment you're obsessed with at the moment."

He rocketed upright on the couch, heedless of his aching body, forcing Sherlock back a step. "And the next time I fancy kicking the door open to a flat stuffed to the brim with ex-militia, I'll endeavor to turn up with a weapon from the right _bloody_ century!"

Sherlock gaped, now entirely wrong-footed. They were back to a case, but not Bontrager. The one they had solved previously: Terrorists. Abduction. Swords.

It was the second-most perilous situation Sherlock had encountered in the Work (the five pips and the pool showdown with Moriarty unarguably taking the top position). When John had unexpectedly arrived at the mercenaries' flat mere hours after Sherlock had been kidnapped, the door flying inward with an almighty bang, John dressed all in black and framed by the light scattering from the twin cavalry sabres he was holding, looking a deranged, parallel version of himself, Sherlock could only stare along with his captors. He had been at least sixty percent sure that both he and John wouldn't even have dental remains by the time the terrorists finished with them.

John had surprised him yet again-this thought occurring as the first sword sailed through the fabric binding his feet, John arcing the motion around into an upward slicing cut, eviscerating the nearest assailant in a blinding flash. The terrorists gazed at the swords, transfixed, their weapons in the other room totally forgotten. Sherlock scrambled out of John's range and worked at the bonds on his hands, forced to observe his friend, all grim countenance and hollow eyes, make short work of the remaining men. The entire episode had been absurd, anachronistic, and over in only fifteen minutes. He had always wondered if he would ever see more than a glimpse of Captain Watson, the man John used to be. Now, as another man fell to the polished wood floor next to Sherlock clutching the slithering mess of his own bowels, he appreciated that this killer, all the more terrifying in his poise and efficacy, had been lurking in the skin of his dear John from the beginning. When he approached John after the last terrorist stopped gurgling his lifeblood against the wooden floor, Sherlock found himself staring into the eyes of a man he did not know. Afghanistan hadn't been just casevac, it seemed, but John had refused to discuss his swordsmanship afterwards, even after his relative popularity amongst the Yarders had skyrocketed once the story circulated. _That_ fact stayed on the hard drive.

"I apologized for that." Sherlock's tone was acerbic. "I didn't think you would actually follow through with their ridiculous ultimatum."

"Well we can't all be bloody brilliant consulting detectives, can we?" John's tone oozed sarcasm. "If a terrorist cell threatens to pull your teeth out and drive them into your skull with a hammer unless I engage them in 18th century combat, I'm going to show up with a sword. Especially after our last entanglement with a psycho, I'd have thought you'd understand that."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "If you remember the clues we pursued at the library, they were actually referencing Copley's painting- _The Death of Major Peirson._ The soldiers depicted were carrying muskets equipped with bayonets, so, really, if you followed it literally-it wasn't intended as such-you would have brought-" The words died in his mouth. John was staring at him sadly.

"You really don't give a shit, do you? That I was scared. I thought after the pool, after-him-" John sat down gingerly with a sigh and looked away, refusing to speak the criminal's name.

"I--it does matter--I'm--" The words seemed wrenched from Sherlock's lips. "I apologized," he repeated. Pale fingers combed through dark locks. He was uncharacteristically desperate to say more, to say the _right_ thing. Why was it so damnably hard with John? "I'm sorry," he bit out, tone tight, guarded.

John recognized it as guilt--an emotion Sherlock did not often entertain, let alone express. "I know, I know," he mumbled, somewhat mollified. He patted the detective's sleeve, the movement ponderous.

"And that's beside the point, John." Sherlock was eager to move on. While the consulting criminal was deliciously interesting to him, dwelling on the encounter would only make John more agitated. "Focus on tonight, not 12 days ago. We survived it."

John exhaled gustily, suddenly at the end of his tirade, and reached out for his tea, quaffing the rest in a few gulps. He pulled a face and handed the mug back. "Tastes worse than your usual," he grumbled, slumping back onto the cushions.

"And you wonder why I prefer that you make the tea," Sherlock replied. "May I proceed?" He gestured to the supplies gathered at his feet.

"I'm knackered." John's voice had an edge of pleading to it, a subtext Sherlock could read very well, if only because _he_ was usually the one giving it. Sherlock marveled at this rare display of vulnerability, that John continued to entrust his weakest moments to the detective for safekeeping. Sherlock did not feel up to the job in the slightest.

"I will ensure you sleep for days, John, after this. If you won't let-professionals-" his voice caressed the word with more than a hint of scorn, "attend to you, then it must be dealt with now. You're a doctor. You know I'm right."

John sucked in a deep breath, and reflexively clutched his side, gaze fixed on the rug. A few seconds of his gravelly breathing filled the space between them.

"Shoulder is a puncture wound, I think. Feels like it," John said, his tone indicating the switch into doctor mode. He leaned forward, and rotated his shoulder gingerly. "Right in the scar tissue, the tosser, but it's not deep."

Sherlock winced internally. "How can you tell?"

John's stare indicated he was not fooled by Sherlock's false display of ignorance, but he carried on anyway. "Shallow wounds sting--minimal bleeding means no blood clot or scab to protect the exposed nerves. Deeper wounds throb internally."

"Can you manage the jumper?"

John regarded him wearily. "Not bloody likely."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, considering, before rooting around in the medical kit. He withdrew a pocket knife and some shears, gauged John's nonplussed reaction, and stowed the knife. He tapped the hem of the jumper with the shears, suddenly thoughtful. "I'm sorry for this," he said, fixing John with a meaningful look. "But if you won't go to A&E..."

" 's ruined anyway," John panted, glancing away. The pain was truly reaching unmanageable proportions if he was short of breath. Sherlock wondered how much longer it would take the Oxycodone to take effect.

It only took seconds for the heavy shears to cleave through the thick wool. Sherlock stuck them between his knees and peeled the fabric back, revealing a rumpled undershirt heavily spotted with dried blood. His fingers ghosted over the stains, an unspoken question behind his pale eyes.

"It's not that bad."

"Really?" Sherlock deadpanned, his budding concern expanding with every second of John's apathy.

"Jumper just slid up a bit when I hit the kerb. It could have been-Oi!" John exclaimed, jumping from the chill of the shears as Sherlock divested him of the undershirt. The detective pressed a hand to John's collarbone, willing him to lay still.

John heaved a very put-upon sigh. "Second-degree abrasions," he commented, angling his chin awkwardly to view the wounds.

Abrasions striped the left side of his abdomen in angry swathes. Most of them appeared superficial, with several glistening wells that promised deeper lacerations. The abused flesh started under the arm and ran the length of his torso, curving around his hip and disappearing into the shadow of the ruined jumper.

Sherlock hooked a finger into the waistband of the jeans and peered underneath. The lamp briefly revealed a bruise the size of a salad plate on his hip, all dark purples and reds on the fringe, blackish in the middle, before John wrenched away from Sherlock's touch.

"No, no, no. Nope," he stuttered, a flush high on his cheeks as he jerked back on the cushions, grinding his teeth at the flare of pain that sparked in his shoulder. "People talk enough as it is. Even bloody Lestrade thinks we're domestic." He scooted back further and rammed his bad shoulder into the arm of the couch. A sharp bark of agony reverberated through the flat.

"One would think," Sherlock began, placing the shears on the coffee table with fastidious care, "that the trivial nattering of strangers would be a lesser priority than your physical health. You being a _physician_ and all."

"Oh, sod off, Sherlock. You know how it-"

"Bothers you? We can hardly go anywhere without your vehement proclamation that we're not a couple. You're violently heterosexual." The detective's eyes narrowed in appraisal. "Is that what this is about?"

"No. It's not what you think."

"John, this is juvenile. And tedious. You are clearly in pain, and that-" he pointed to John's hip-"looks ghastly, even for a solider." He leaned forward and fixed John with what he hoped was an earnest expression. "What is wrong? Something with the case?"

"No, no."

Sherlock wet the flannel in the bowl of lukewarm water he had brought from the kitchen and gingerly dabbed the edge of the abrasions. John was tense beneath his hands but aloof, staring pointedly away from Sherlock.

He worked in silence, disinfecting the area once the road grit had been cleared from the wounds. Sherlock grasped John's forearm, intent upon lifting the elbow to give him enough clearance to start bandaging, but John jerked his arm free with a glare and haltingly sat upright, shrugging out of the jumper ineffectually until Sherlock helped remove it, careful not to disturb his shoulder overmuch, but John was clammy and shaking by the time Sherlock tossed the offending garment onto the floor. He guided John's arm across his chest and over the other shoulder, and turned to the packet of gauze when John broke the silence.

"I can't say it," he whispered, more to himself, his injured arm shaking from the effort of holding it out of the way.

Sherlock ignored him but worked in efficient movements, pressing sterile gauze pads to the skin and taping them in place, making sure to fit the fabric loosely over the gashes sealed with butterfly closures. If their positions were reversed, John would have insisted upon winding an elastic wrap around the gauze to secure it, but Sherlock wanted to be finished with this awkward task.

"Why would your trust issues be triggered by the case? You don't trust me?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"Stop _saying_ it like that. Of course I trust you. Look, never mind-"

"John," Sherlock warned, "Why don't you want my help?"

"I don't know," John admitted, crinkling his face up before dropping his eyes to the collar of Sherlock's suit jacket.


	2. Chapter 2

_*Previously..._

_"John," Sherlock warned, "Why don't you want my help?"_

_"I don't know," John admitted, crinkling his face up before dropping his eyes to the collar of Sherlock's suit jacket._

 

The sound of the inclement weather swelled between them, the dull roar of the rain, the individual drops pattering random, tinny notes off the gutters, the mournful whistle and moan of the blustery winds against the brick and glass, the protracted grumbling of the thunderheads underscoring all other sounds, both comforting and galvanizing at once. It seemed to speak directly to the contest of wills brewing between the two men. John must have come to the same conclusion as Sherlock, for both men locked eyes in the same instant.

Sherlock observed his flatmate with sharp eyes, and replaced the flannel in the bowl. "Do you harbor...amorous feelings towards me?" Sherlock said, his voice even. Both men regarded each other: Sherlock with some trepidation, and John with absolutely no expression at all.

John abruptly threw his head back and laughed, the booming sound surprising them both. The doctor clapped a hand to his bandages with a wince, but flashed Sherlock a wry grin. The outcome where John laughed good-naturedly about his sexuality being called into question instead of closing off or exploding was an eventuality Sherlock had not foreseen. He was far too deep in uncharted (and unwelcome) waters to confidently deduce anything other than what showed on John's face. It threw him.

"Clearly, everyone thinks so. What do you think? Honestly?" John said, the hint of amusement in his eyes belying the frown scripted in every corner of his face.

At the other man's words, the consulting detective became very aware of the intimate way he was leaning towards John, one hand steadied on his good shoulder. John's skin was very warm. He withdrew his hand and plopped it uselessly in his lap, bewildered.

His friend watched him with pity for a moment before heaving yet another sigh. "It's not like that, Sherlock. Look-" he closed his mouth, swallowed, and glanced at the wallpaper for inspiration.

John suddenly looked older. He beckoned for Sherlock's hand, and grasped it firmly when the other man slowly placed his palm on John's.

"It's not complicated. To me, anyway. But people love to complicate simple matters. Have to slap a neat label on everything," he drawled pensively. He glanced sidelong at the younger man. " It's not anything sweeping or grand. It's just the way I feel. I don't even know how you'll take it."

Sherlock was a statue perched on the cushions, tuned to John's voice. He was more curious than apprehensive about John's mysterious confession. It had been a chip on the other man's shoulder since the (now) infamous Study in Pink. This unspoken _thing_ was the last chasm between them, and even Sherlock had known better than to pry. He didn't harbor a burning desire to label what John was to him, what he represented, and so had studiously _avoided_ it. He nodded stiffly.

"Right, there's no good way to start these things," John muttered, squeezing Sherlock's hand unconsciously, his eyes a storm of apprehension.

"I-well-I love you, Sherlock, in the strongest way that I can muster. I don't know how. I didn't think it was possible to love someone this much. Let alone another man," he said with flat disbelief. "If you'd told me two years ago that I'd be sharing a flat with a self-proclaimed sociopath, and that on top of assisting him in the madness of his life's work, I'd take a bullet for him just as soon as I'd wash his socks, I'd think you'd gone round the bend. Absolutely bonkers." His words were soft yet compelling in the darkened flat. The timbre of his voice indicated that this was a topic oft revisited, likely during the nights when memories of the war and other, darker things made sleep a foregone conclusion.

He glanced up from Sherlock's lapels, his eyes gentle, a rueful half-smile on his lips. "I'd follow you anywhere. God knows I shouldn't harp on your brilliance--you're enough of an arrogant berk as it is--but it's a kind of force over me. Like your stupid nicotine patches. I'd do any number of mental, dangerous things in your company- _have_ done them. You were the only one who saw I could be...useful again," his voice wavered slightly on the last word, "even if I'm just your blogger." Tears had not gathered in his eyes, but they were evident in his voice. Sherlock marveled that even here, in the midst of such a disclosure, John could spare a pass at self-deprecation. In a rare moment of sympathy, he cursed that both of them were so incurably British, but remained silent. John did not seem finished.

John paused to draw breath, and seemed to come back to himself. He shifted on the couch, now refusing to meet Sherlock's silvery gaze. "And I just turned our flat into a confessional. Jesus. It's just..." He visibly gathered himself, "People's attempts to categorize our relationship frustrates me. Because I don't care what we are, or if it's normal, or appropriate."

John's voice was a fierce whisper, the sound of it coiling in Sherlock's chest, warming him. He had gone very still, and it took all of his control not to disconnect, retreat to his mind palace until the awkwardness had passed. Leave it to John--marvelous, emotive, unbelievably ordinary John--to be eloquent and blunt in the same moment. Instead of being swallowed in the ensuing silence--the fate of many an emotional declaration made to Sherlock--the words hung between them, near-tangible, drawing the emotional tension not to a fever pitch, but closer to a quiet, crackling roar. He honestly had not known that he sought anything from their friendship until this very moment, but he found himself agreeing with John's plain words. But where to go now?

"I love you, and I don't even want to shag you." John mumbled, bemused. He darted a sheepish glance at his flatmate. "Oh God. I said that out loud." He pulled his hand from Sherlock's and ran it over the back of his neck, a characteristic tell of his embarrassment.

"Platonic affection," Sherlock stated.

Disappointment flashed across John's face for just an instant-long enough for Sherlock to realize that this was not the reply John wanted after his declaration-a disclosure that, from John's perspective, was tantamount to admitting they were "a couple." With a mental sigh, Sherlock shut out the analytical data streaming through his brain, and marshalled his incipient emotions. John had revealed his ardent-affection? love?-for Sherlock, and the detective had glossed over it.

A wave of distaste engulfed him, and he saw that if John was to be assuaged, he must deal in kind, heart with heart. _What was Lestrade fond of saying when he felt overwrought? Not my division?_

"Yes. Bit more than that, maybe. I suppose that's the only term we've got," John was saying slowly, "Though the concept's rather dead at the moment."

John was still deep in thought, mirroring Sherlock's own sudden retreat inwards. _Knowing_ John was moved by emotional appeals and legitimately _using_ them without an ulterior motive would be a first. His personal reluctance to speak on that matter was inconsequential, faced now with his current dilemma sitting opposite him in a cautious, vulnerable snit. He glanced desperately to his violin in the corner, noted the shadows draped across the floor and walls, shrinking the enclosed space of their living room smaller still, the pair of them enveloped in the fuzzy halo of the desk lamp. Even the bloody flat was forcing them closer. He dismissed the jangling nerves crawling along his spine with vicious force. Absurd though it seemed, John needed reassurance.

"Like Frodo and Sam?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"What?" John said with disbelief. "Well, that's a bit grey, you know. On purpose. But yeah, something like-You've really read Lord of the Rings?" he said, interrupting himself.

"I am prone to whimsy on occasion," Sherlock replied.

John broke into a broad grin. "Good thing it's rare," he said with mock seriousness.

Thunder cracked around the flat, loud enough to rattle the few dishes in the cupboard. Both men became absorbed in the maelstrom of detritus swirling past the windows of Baker Street-leaves, receipts, paper stubs, several parking tickets.

"There are conflicting classifications for a subject so open to conjecture," Sherlock said, launching into lecture mode, mindful to inflect his voice higher than what John called his 'I'm-going-to-deduce-every-last-personal-iota-about-you' tone. "But most theories reduce love to four or five categories: Storge, Phileo, Eros, Agape, and Lust/Desire, though that last one is contested, as Lewis didn't include it in his original exposition."

John snapped his head around to stare at Sherlock, plainly astonished. "You've read C.S. Lewis?"

"It was an elective at university, part of 'Foundations of Modern Christianity', though 'Historical Fiction' would have been a more appropriate description."

"And you took that _willingly?_ " He had never seen John more flabbergasted. "All the forensics and anatomy courses full? Nautical Archaeology not available?"

"Know thy enemy," Sherlock returned, smirking just enough to show the barb was mostly harmless.

"Only you would know about the academic side of love without doing the fieldwork," John said wryly.

"Why would you assume I haven't done the legwork?"

John contemplated that. "Have you?"

Sherlock stared hard at the ex-soldier, sifting as much data through his mind as he could, considering. "No," he said finally, voice soft. "Never could spare the time."

Silence yawned between them, and Sherlock could feel his opportunity slipping away. _A lecture? That's all the great Sherlock Holmes could produce when faced with a difficult subject?_ He possessed enough social intuition to understand that this moment, once gone, could never be broached again, and whatever he had with John would change regardless. He had no intention of discovering what that change might be if he failed.

"Loyalty," Sherlock said, gamely pressing on.

"Beg pardon?"

"It's loyalty between us. Phileo."

John pinked slightly as he considered his friend's words."Yes..."

"You said it was more than platonic love, John, but you didn't want to shag me," Sherlock elaborated, his tone impatient. The slang sounded _off_ in his posh accent.

John blushed outright at his own words. "Yeah, regretting that, now-"

Sherlock made another impatient noise, louder than before, and unexpectedly settled his hands on either side of John's face, pushing past trivial things like personal space and decorum. "No, you idiot. It's loyalty. The rarest condition our savage species is capable of producing. The hardest attachment to foster and maintain when there is no romantic or familial basis for it. There was no pre-existing emotional foundation for-" He trailed off and looked at John in wonder, the full import of John's confession finally breaking through the last retaining wall surrounding his mind palace. John was similarly gobsmacked at Sherlock's incredible leap of emotional reasoning. So unlike him, and yet...not. Leave it to the world's only consulting detective to grow a heart within a single evening.

"The rarity of such a connection is...well, I had little hope of experiencing it for myself, because it must be freely given," Sherlock continued, voice thin from the tempest churning in his gut. He grinned at his speechless friend. "And you gave it to me within 48 hours of our first meeting. No strings," he said, brows drawn together in comprehension, beautiful eyes full of awe.

John's face grew hot again. Sherlock's naked expression, that elusive empathy so rarely found laid bare. It was wonderful, but strange. "It's not a logical equation. It's just what a friend would do," he said hoarsely, unsure of the route this conversation was taking.

"No, John. Only you-uniquely John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers-would do such a stupid thing. For a man who deserves no such measure of devotion."

The doctor's eyes snapped up to meet the detective's. "You make it sound so extraordinary."

Sherlock's gaze had softened to something John had never seen before. "It is, imbecile."

Maybe it was the empathy in his eyes, or the insult that still carried a bit of a sting-it was just _so_ Sherlock. John yanked the man forward, wrapping his arms around him, coat and all, ignoring the sting and throb from his side. The lanky man stiffened, but John only sighed deeply into the pocket pressed against his face, and tightened his grip. After several prolonged seconds, Sherlock's arms encircled John, one around his shoulders, the other cupping the back of John's head. The gesture was tender, unguarded, and so natural that it was the last straw for John's stiff upper lip. Tears spilled onto Sherlock's jacket, and right then, he didn't give two flips if Mycroft, Lestrade, or every person in the world crowded into their flat to stare with disapproval as he cried like a child onto his best friend.

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat, something approaching a purr, and found that this contact with John, far from fostering discomfort, was nice. Pleasurable, even. It felt right. He tented his fingers up against John's nape, into the hairline, and palpated the base of his skull in slow circles, anatomical cross-sections flitting across his mind's eye in slideshow format. John sobbed audibly at his friend's touch, the sound suppressed by Sherlock's coat, before his shoulders began to shake with mute weeping. Sensing this would go on for an indeterminable length of time, Sherlock leaned back carefully, centering their combined weight into a more comfortable angle.

Whether this unique episode was prompted by simple exhaustion or the result of more meaningful things boiling over was immaterial for the moment. He didn't understand this facet of John, not precisely, not like he knew the countless routines and procedures that ran continuously on his hard drive and prompted his observations. The confrontation at the pool, though, was a paradigm shift, the moment when his withered heart had clambered into his mouth at the sight of John wired into 15 bars of cemtex, laser sights dancing merrily across the vest, that quiet acceptance in his dark eyes, the smooth acknowledgement of his imminent death when he'd made a gamble to buy Sherlock an exit. All of this after he'd delivered his "don't make people into heroes" line earlier that day, which, in retrospect, was the most pointed sort of irony. John was a much better foil if an element of mystery remained, some aspect of him that Sherlock could not unravel, not with all the time and nicotine patches the Holmes fortune could purchase.

John began to pull away after a few minutes, mumbling something that was, in all likelihood, an apology, and Sherlock watched, fascinated, as his arms moved, arresting his friend gently, pressing his head back down to his shoulder. It was awkward, yes. Sherlock had no doubt John shared that sentiment. But it was also necessary. An alternative would not do. It was not acceptable.

The consulting detective could count on one hand the number of times that someone had touched him with anything resembling affection in the past few years, and Lestrade holding his hand in hospital while he recovered from his first real overdose probably did not count. And even then, the Detective Inspector had probably feared for his job as well as his life. He had only just 'met' Mycroft a month prior to Sherlock's overdose, in much the same manner that John had first 'met' the elder Holmes.

"I-I care for you, John," Sherlock finally managed thirty minutes later, still overcome with the wash of foreign emotions. "Well, maybe more than care, but-"

"Sherlock, stop," John said into the collar of the Belstaff. "There's no need to reciprocate. I'm just relieved, honestly, that you haven't kicked me out of the flat."

"Whatever for?" Sherlock scoffed, pushing him back to look at him properly.

"For...before." John's tone was a weird mixture of relief and discomfort. "Err, I know this isn't quite your arena. The emotional fiddly bits and such."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, John. Nearly a year spent in my company, and all I get is 'emotional fiddly bits' ?"

His blogger only looked sheepish and shrugged. He seemed to become aware that Sherlock still held his shoulders tightly, and the two men were nearly nose to nose (if not for the height difference). The flush returned to his neck, eyes darting up to capture Sherlock's for just a second, gauging whether _this_ was still acceptable.

Sherlock was absorbed in a last, genuine effort to articulate his thoughts. It was very well for John to be dismissive-he was adept at speaking his heart. It rolled from his lips with no effort at all, barely any thought process. 'Embracing those chemical defects may be good for you,' John had told him once with a cheeky smile. Oh, how little John knew on that matter. Sherlock had endured an endless parade of banal psychologists as a child, each one striving to make any number of diagnoses stick-everything from Asperger's to psychopathy-each doctor harrumphing and eyeballing him with displeasure, like he was a peculiar piece of pottery that had eluded identification. This, more than anything, destroyed any notion he had about adults "having it all figured out." Father's incessant quest for a label for his son's perceived oddities had not endeared him to Sherlock. He recognized, grudgingly, that this was one issue at the root of the discord between he and Mycroft. _Stupid, dull, perfect Mycroft._

He wasn't a sociopath, strictly speaking. Nor was he--Sherlock mentally sneered--suffering from a disorder. It was the _why_ of it all he found so infuriating. _Why_ did any of that rubbish matter? It was a logical move; the intimidation factor that came with identifying himself as a sociopath opened far more avenues than "consulting detective" ever could. That he was perhaps missing a crucial angle from which to approach The Work had never occurred to him, not until he had seen John standing in his black jacket by the police car after the death of the cabbie, looking the picture of innocence. The full import of John's mundane yet singular personality, what it could mean, was suddenly made manifest in that one, blinding moment. John was important somehow. He should stay. _Obviously._

"Sherlock?"

Abruptly, he snapped his gaze up from the papers all over the rug to John's eyes. He could see his triumph reflected back at him in their tired, chocolate depths. For John's sake, he would try to be-emotive. He mentally shook himself and cleared his throat meaningfully before settling fully onto the leg twisted beneath him, and gripping John's forearms officiously through the ruined jumper. John glanced down, a soft smile creeping across his face when he returned his gaze to Sherlock.

"I'm rubbish at this. Look, the point is-you are _my_ John," he said firmly.

John gave him that fond, lopsided grin and chuffed a laugh through his nose. "Yes, I suppose I am." He raised an eyebrow at his flatmate before gently disengaging himself and slouching backwards, allowing his head to loll back against the couch armrest, taking care not to put pressure on his shoulder. "A bit possessive, eh?"

"You're _mine_ ," Sherlock repeated, a hint of puzzlement in his voice. How could this be difficult for John to understand? It was the obvious conclusion to this-this _chaotic mess_ of a conversation.

"So I heard."

Sherlock began to clean up the supplies on the table, his mind a tangle of apprehension and doubt. He was not accustomed to floundering through conversation, and it was exceedingly uncomfortable. He loathed relinquishing control of his emotional fortitude (such as it was), and every passing second spent in ambiguity only heightened his anxiety. Just when he was seconds from excusing himself to go dig in his mattress for a nicotine patch, John blinked his eyes open, fixing his friend with an annoyed expression.

"I can practically hear your synapses blazing from here, Sherlock," John said drily. "You know my answer, don't you? Do you have to hear it spelled out?"

The younger man just stared at him with guarded anxiety.

John shook his head in consternation. "If this wasn't such a watershed moment for you, Sherlock, I'd just let you hang, and figure it out yourself. You and your brilliant intellect, ego the size of the London Eye." He met the pale eyes that had never left his face. "Of course I'm your's, you daft git. I could never be anyone else's. Is that answer enough, or do you need a ring?"

The consulting detective froze, inwardly racing through the corridors of his mind palace towards John's room there, though it was expanding into more of a proper wing now, ceilings stretching upwards, windows yawning wide as the rooms expanded and grew doors and inner passages.

"It was a joke, Sherlock," John said flatly. "I have no intention of marrying you. Even if you magically changed into a woman, had _more_ money than you already do coming out your arse, and Mycroft was your personal butler, or something." John barked out a short laugh, picked up his mug and peered inside. "What the fuck did you put in my tea? Veritaserum?"

"Fictional, John. The closest match would be sodium pentothal, and even if administered unknowingly, the results are dubious at best."

"You have absolutely no sense of humor."

Sherlock pursed his lips in reply. "You have said you don't appreciate it."

"True," John agreed. "It's usually at the expense of someone else."

Sherlock sniffed and changed the subject."You're sure the shoulder can wait until tomorrow? Were you not just telling me--loudly--the opposite last week?"

"Puncture wounds can wait a few hours if they're small."

"Or if you're surly."

John sent him a withering glare, but there was no heat behind it. "When I was on Bontrager's tail as he shot up that fire escape ladder, he kicked me in the chest when I grabbed his leg. Stumbled back into the opposite building's ladder I guess, or what was left of it. Must've been a broken strut. Nothing major."

"Hmm. Shouldn't I drag you to the washroom anyway?" Sherlock continued. "I will not be pleased if I'm forced to suffer through one of your emotional paroxysms tomorrow because your 'small wound' has turned a curious shade of red."

"It's fine, Sherlock. Really. Can't I grab a few hours sleep before I deal with that? Why am I even bargaining with you-"

The consulting detective sat back on his haunches, thinking. "I could suture it. Molly taught me."

"She did?" John said, surprised. "I'm impressed by her fortitude."

"It was after that case in the abandoned tube line, when I was injured and you stitched the cuts on my shin," Sherlock said with a petulant air.

"They were more like lacerations, but yeah, I remember," John said drily. "You whinged all night long, and refused to take paracetamol. Anyway, this won't need stitches right now." He eyed Sherlock seriously as he gave his shoulder an experimental roll. "But thanks for the offer."

Sherlock stared at John for one long moment before nodding. He gestured at John's trousers, his manner a bit too casual, too brittle. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

He guided the waistband carefully over the gigantic bruise, and off, and left the jeans in a pile beside the sofa, not waiting for John to decide if he would withstand one more invasion into his personal space.

"What am I looking at?" Sherlock asked, working the side of John's pants down past the hip, enough to give him access to treat the wound while still remaining chaste. He was grateful to allow his mind to focus and begin accumulating, sorting, distilling, and analyzing once more. He'd seen this sort of contusion before. Molly had not appreciated the comparison between her beet salad and the livor mortis of the car accident victim.

John peered under his arm, eyes suddenly glassy and shining in the lamp light. "Just a hematoma, not ecchymosis. Really swollen. Symptoms similar to a fracture, especially on articulations. Like a hip," John drowsed. "What did you put in my tea? Seriously."

"Nothing," Sherlock replied.

John screwed his eyes shut, the effort of recalling information almost beyond him. "The vessels have to repair themselves. Basically loads of pain through the healing process. Have to watch for compartment syndrome, I think? Nothing to really treat. Jus' time."

"Nothing at all?"

"The usual. Rest, Ice...Compression? I forget the rest. Hmmm."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, smiling slightly, grateful that John was now very close to sleep. He finished cleaning the surface of the bruise and slid off the couch slowly, so as not to jostle his patient, and retrieved the only thing currently in their freezer-a bag of edamame-and wrapped it in a clean tea towel before returning to the couch and settling the bag over the vivid contusion. John mumbled something and ground his face deeper into the union jack pillow. Sherlock reached down to smooth John's hair before catching himself and snatching his hand back with a scowl. He picked up his mug and drained the cold tea to distract himself from the almost faux pas, and noticed goose flesh on John's skin.

Shaking his head in consternation (it was not cold in the flat), Sherlock retrieved the duvet from his bedroom and spread it over John, tucking it around his body with perhaps more fastidiousness than was necessary.

He fished John's mobile from his breast pocket (appropriated while the other man had been unconscious) and fired off a text to Sarah explaining the night's events, hoping that John would not require a forceful reminder to get his shoulder treated in the morning. He remembered to include an apology for the lateness of the hour just before he hit 'send'. Apparently, most people thought 3 am was too late to communicate. Most people were stupid.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, voice thick with sleep.

"Yes?"

"Did you...slip me...an opioid?"

"I'm not apologizing for it, if that's what you're looking for. You can hardly expect two apologies on the same night, John. Really."

"Sorry for...y'know."

"No need to be sorry, John. It's quite alright," Sherlock responded, keeping his voice light.

John's hand snaked out from where he lay bundled under the heavy duvet, groping the air until he found Sherlock's sleeve.

"Meant it. Everything I said," John mumbled, fingers tightening in the fabric. "Important to me."

Sherlock regarded the hand gripping the cuff of his shirt.

_Ragged cuticles. Uncharacteristic. Stress._  
Slight flaking of skin in thenar space. Dry air in the surgery.  
Scuffed knuckles. Case. Asphalt.  
Slight tremor. Undesignated. Too many variables. 

The familiar prickle of displeasure that crawled across his skin from physical contact was wholly absent. John seemed to have deactivated that protocol. And if he knew John, the change was permanent. Curiously, Sherlock felt calm, sated by the intellectual stimulation of the case, and perhaps other things he could only roughly acknowledge before shoving them into the basement of the mind palace. John's hand upon his sleeve seemed to right some wrong that had heretofore gone unnoticed. It was _more_ than any number of trite greeting card declarations; those slovenly, base sentiments other people expressed were just veneer, a saccharine gloss that sparkled obscenely and held no real weight. He considered the weak but resolute grip of his friend.

He was unable to say those three important words that John had entrusted to him, not in this moment, but he was confident John had accurately perceived his sentiments regardless.

"I'd be lost without my blogger," he said, deep voice pitched low, and covered John's hand with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: One of the main reasons I am deeply taken by Gatiss and Moffat's take on Sherlock and John is that their nuanced, singular relationship defies simple categorization. The attraction of two souls is nothing new, but society has unfortunately tethered this with the idea that two soulmates must also share a sexual attraction. Love comes in so many different colors and forms, and for me, true phileo love is both powerful and humbling. (Though for the record, I think John & Sherlock work as both a romantic or platonic pair).


End file.
